The NonExistent Enterprise General Strike
by Cha Oseye Tempest Thrain
Summary: R for lanuguage as usual. Part of the ongoing Hess Chronicles. Immediate sequel to The Great WaterGun War. Anything else would give too much away. COMPLETE.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer/Author's Note: I do not own these characters. However, far be it from me to leave them hanging in purgatory, even after all they've done. Even after all those sleepless nights, and days spent dragging my ass at work while people ask me what I keep giggling about. But whatever happens, don't blame me. I'm just the scribe. Review of course, but: IT'S NOT MY FAULT.

DEDICATION: This story is dedicated to those masters of the absurd: Johnny Wayne and Frank Schuster. From Shakespearean Baseball to their own goofs on Star Trek, they influenced me in more ways than I can imagine. Gentlemen, you are sorely missed.

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Narrator's Note: Since the following events did not technically occur, there is a) no record of these events in any official log and b) I have no legal qualms whatsoever in disclosing my or anyone else's non-involvement in the following non-events. Names would be changed to protect the innocent… if anyone was innocent.

**The Non-Existent Enterprise General Strike**

**Prologue:**

Arrest. To slow or stop. To take into custody. Lieutenant Malcolm Reed has way too much fun with things like this.

He insists on being there to put the restraints on personally and a little to tightly in my opinion.

"You know, we could at least have dinner first."

He gives me his darkest look as his guards try not to burst out laughing. "You have no idea what kind of trouble you're in right now, do you Hess?"

"Actually I do. Which totally destroys any hope you and I ever had. Oh well. I'll get over it." I didn't think that look could get any darker, but it does. I do know what kind of trouble I'm in. I also know that I'm not giving up on getting out of it just yet. See, that's the difference between me and Commander Tucker: he accepts his fate and gets on with life. I'm a lawyer. We have acceptance difficulties. That's why lawyers charge so much, you know: we need to be able to pay for our therapists.

Now Enterprise, being an exploration ship, doesn't have a brig. So the captain has three choices: convert storage space into a cell, lock us in the airlock, or confine us to quarters. Not being the type to appreciate good drama -- what is it with captains and practicality anyway – he chooses the third. I invite Malcolm in (never give up when you've got a good needle going) but he simply removes the restraints and locks the door, making sure he's on the other side. Damn. And he's so cute when he's angry.

Oh? Did I say _us?_ Right. Commander Tucker and I are in this together. Right up to our necks.


	2. Not Much of Anything

**Disclaimer: These are not my characters, and this is for entertaiment purposes only.**

****

**Author's note: I hope it's entertaining....**

The Non-Existent Enterprise General Strike

_"I didn't say it was your fault, I said I was going to blame you."_

Chapter 1: Not Much of Anything

It's not much fun being in custody, not when you know that somewhere outside those sealed and guarded doors[1]your precious department is falling into shambles. I know, because despite my arrest and the fact that I have no remaining actual authority, I keep getting calls from people asking what to do. Like Rostov, who – while only an ensign – is now in charge of the whole shebang. Poor kid. There's a reason it's a three-person job, and the commander's and my quick departures left us with no time to train him on all the higher up administrative functions. Apparently, his first department heads meeting was a fiasco. He was so nervous that he dumped an entire carafe of coffee onto Ensign Sato. And all over the table where it seeped into a small flaw in somebody's pad and caused all the electronics to blow up, not to mention the security logs for an entire week. Malcolm said because he used to work for us, that he did it on purpose. Rostov denied this, and Phlox had to step in because he thought that Rostov was having a heart attack. Shortly afterwards I got a secret message from Commander Tucker (a.k.a. Prisoner No 1), assuring me that he captured the whole episode on tape.[2]

By noon on day three, there's trouble in our former paradise. I'm still waiting to talk to my lawyer – "Communications glitch, Hess. We're a little short on engineers now, or we'd have it fixed" – when the doorbell rings. It's not dinner time (I'm waiting for the bread and water, but the captain just won't oblige me), so I'm wondering who's come to hassle me this time.

I pull a small device out of my desk and walk over to the door. It's one of the first things Commander Tucker helped me build when he took me on as his protégé, and I'm not going to tell you how it works. I snake a couple of wires from the device into the door control and push a button.

The door opens to reveal a contingent of engineering uniforms and a couple of very startled guards. I guess they weren't expecting the door to be opened from the inside, and they're also trying to figure out why I didn't do it before.

"Gentlemen. We've been over this. I cannot help you. I have been relieved of duty, relieved of my command. There is nothing I can do."

"That's what we tried to tell them." One of my guards looks relieved. "They wouldn't listen to us." They may be guards, but they're outnumbered six to one.

"We're not here to ask for engineering advice." Crewman Bitten steps forward from the group, clearly the leader. He's also the one with the most seniority, which is saying something "We're here because we need a legal advisor."

"Oh." Well this is refreshing news. "Well in that case, step into my office. It's going to be a little crowded… try not to step on anything important…and we'll see what we can do."

"Um… ma'am…" The guard looks panicked. He knows he's not supposed to let them in but – like most intelligent people – doesn't want to get stuck in a legal mess.

"Relax." I reach out and give him a pat on the arm as the last of the group files past me. "They're just here to talk to me in a legal capacity. It's perfectly allowable. We'll be very good, and I won't try to escape. I promise."

As he opens his mouth to protest, I close the door. And lock it.

"Now. What is it you wish to talk to me about?" Yes, I sound formal, but I always do in lawyer mode.

"We're going on strike." Bitten announces it so bluntly that I almost suspect he's joking. "We can't take it anymore. The schedules are all screwed up, work isn't getting done, Rostov's snapping at everybody like he's Patton or something… not only that, but the captain assigned a couple of people from command support to help Ros with the admin duties, and…they're all blaming us for their screw-ups."

"Who'd he assign?" Not that it's my department any more, but I do still care.

"Brigman and Schacter."

Okay, shoot me now. "He's letting those jokers run _my_ engineering department?" I mean _technically_ it's Commander Tucker's engineering department, but he's more of a good looking figurehead. I do most of the gritty management stuff. "Those assholes couldn't breathe if they didn't look it up in the rulebook first."

"So, how should we go about it…" He's not sure what to call me right now, because technically I'm not an officer. Especially not in my current capacity.

"Call me Nic. I'm your legal advisor now, not your commanding officer." I sit down on my bunk (there's no other space available). I may look and sound calm, but I'm steamed. Captain couldn't have done a better job of pissing me off if he'd tried. Maybe he did.

"As your legal advisor I must inform you that such an act would be tantamount to mutiny and as such you should not undertake it. And since you will not be doing it, you should _not_ begin with a 'Work To Rule' campaign, which you most certainly should _not_ follow up with a withdrawal of non-essential services such as general housekeeping. And since you will not be doing that, it cannot fail, and there will be no need for you to move on to picket duty. Oh, and since a general strike requires a union – which you do not have – you will have no need to form said union for the purposes of a non-occurring General Strike."

"And I suppose…"

"I do not have the paperwork for the legal creation of a worker's union in the top drawer of my desk." I do not tell a lie, it's in the bottom drawer. Fortunately, I am also well known for my ability to mix up simple things like left and right, so Bitten finds it without much looking.[3]

"Do you think we should involve other departments?" Crewman Karcy is having a little difficulty with the concept of not doing anything.

"Don't be ridiculous. While without them joining you in solidarity it would not fully _be_ a General Strike, simply an engineer's strike, you are not going to _have_ a General Strike so therefore you will have no need to involve other departments."

"Theoretically," Crewman Starr has been an engineer longer and knows how to avoid the pitfalls of implied guilt, "in the event of a General Strike, who mans the essential services if the workers refuse?"

"Management." Since it's just a theoretical question, I can answer it directly. "Now theoretically that would be anybody with a commission: ensign or above." Poor Rostov. He thought he had it bad _before_. I do feel sorry for him, because it's not his fault, but that's life in the lovely world of management and politics.

And while legally this could be a problem, I think they're on pretty solid _tactical_ ground. Archer's not going to want to go down in history as the first Starfleet captain to charge the bulk of his crew with mutiny. No, he'd rather go after the ringleaders, which would be _me_. And since I have been relieved of my command, and am therefore no longer an officer, it is technically impossible for me to mutiny.[4] He also cannot run his ship without a crew, which means he may be more inclined to listen to their requests. Besides, while he may well and truly want to be rid of _me_, I _know_ he doesn't want to be rid of Commander Tucker. And since this whole mess _started_ because Commander Tucker wouldn't let Captain Archer get rid of me (without getting rid of him), I think I'm pretty safe. Provided Commander Tucker doesn't change his mind, of course.

Needless to say, we don't map out a plan of action or organize the Union structure at that point. The question of dues is not raised and debated, nor is the membership drive started.

I feel good. Things are cooking again. Stuff is being _done_.

* * *

[1] We're engineers. And Commander Tucker is _known_ as a break and enter artist. # You think the captain _didn't _post guards?

# Or in this case it would have to be break and _exit_.

[2] Which is why the captain really should have gone with the airlock. He didn't expect us to sit in our quarters and _behave_ did he?

[3] I assume. Because I'm not there. And neither is he.

[4] Okay, very technically. But technicalities win cases, especially if you're the defendant.


	3. The Prisoner Communiques begin

Disclaimer:  I do not own these characters.  This story is for entertainment purposes only.

A/N: Thank you to my beta readers (silvershadowfire and gaianarchy) for all your help And now it gets weird…

Chapter 2:  The Prisoner Communiques (begin)

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From:  Prisoner No 1

To:   Prisoner No 2

Re:  Malcolm.

Shweethart, what are you doing?  CA just busted Malcolm for letting you have a, quote, coffee-klatch in your quarters.  While it was fun to see, I must know.  What is going on???[1]  Does it involve me, and how badly is the captain going to kill us this time?  And if it was something else, can I have pictures?

            (Yes, he even does bad Bogey imitations in his memos.  Or possibly Sean Connery, I can't really tell.  Yes, he too accepts the level of trouble he's in -- but since he's already been charged with Insubordination, Inciting a Riot, Aiding and Abetting the Assault on an Officer, Unlawful Confinement _and_ Hindering an Investigation -- we both agree it can't get any worse.  And there's only so much sitting in your quarters you can do before you start to go crazy.  And since we're both from the South and were on Tennessee Williams before we could talk…[2] )

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From:  Prisoner No 2

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To: Prisoner No 1

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Re:  Coffee-klatches

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Actually, there was no coffee involved, and – alas -- nothing interesting enough to take pictures of.  My apologies.  I am sorry, but I cannot discuss the events in greater detail, as I am bound by legal confidentiality.

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From: Prisoner No 1

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To: Prisoner No 2

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Oh God.

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            The captain has gotten me some tougher guards.  No one but Captain Archer, or Sub-Commander T'Pol or Lieutenant Reed is allowed in or out.  Except of course…

            "Dinner."

            "Thank-you, crewman."  Now dinner has been checked over in the way that guards do just to make sure that there's not a file in the steak or a coded message carved into the mashed potatoes – it's in the green beans instead.  Phase one of our strike has (not) gone into action.  By the end of the day there is 90% membership in the union.  Not bad, considering that organisational efforts must be kept secret.  After all, if upper management finds out, it's all over before you can say…

            "…Surprise inspection, Hess."

            I turn to face Malcolm, my hands on my hips.  "Now it would have been nice if you'd have knocked.  I might have been naked, you know."

            He turns bright red.  This man is way too easy.  "It would hardly be a surprise if I knocked, now would it, Hess?  And what would you be doing naked at this time of day anyway?"

            I give him the double raised eyebrow which causes him to cough.  "It's my room, and my time of day, now.  I can do whatever I want.  Now what, pray tell, are you inspecting for, and what gives you the right to inspect here, anyway?"

            "You are – _technically –_ still a member of this crew."  He's been hanging out with me for way too long.  "Therefore I – as head of security – have every right to check these quarters for contraband, security threats, and _any_ other unauthorised items."

            Oh dear.  Because Igor and Evil Thing[3] aren't exactly 'authorised items'.  Luckily they have a tendency to go into hiding when the door opens.

            He conducts a cursory inspection:  lifting my mattress, going through my desk drawers, frisking me.  I make a few more comments just to watch his ears turn colour, then allow him to escape.  Almost.  "Can I call my lawyer, yet?"

            "No.  We're still having problems."  He looks like he's going to cry as the door closes.  I wonder why.

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From: Prisoner No 1

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To: Prisoner No 2

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Re:  Malcolm (again)!

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What did you do to Malcolm?  He came here to do a 'surprise inspection' and he was all swollen up and red and blotchy.  It's the funniest thing I ever saw; I have pictures.  Of course, he confiscated my camera, but not before I could download them.  These'll be great for my scrapbook. By the way, what _would_ you have been up to, naked in the middle of the day?

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From:  Prisoner No 2

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To: Prisoner No 1

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Re:  Malcolm

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Dahling I have no idea what could _possibly_ have happened to our dear Lieutenant unless he is (perhaps) susceptible to the sheddings of members of the feline or lagomorph species.  I assure you, it was entirely unintentional.  And in response to a previous missive: I am going to take that as I am sure you intended -- as a serious prayer.  I thank you for your thoughts during this troubled time.  I am, however, glad to hear you are finding ways of amusing yourself.  I was afraid you might be languishing in your solitude, as I know how social a creature you are.  Keep your strength up -- I am certain all will be resolved soon.  As for your final question:  I will leave that up to your fertile imagination.  I'm sure you can think of something.

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From:  Prisoner No 1

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To: Prisoner No 2

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That is not a nice thing to say to a man in captivity.

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            "Ms. Hess."  The captain is deliberately not using my possibly former title[4] to try and prove to me the seriousness of my situation.  I think he is wondering why it is taking Commander Tucker so long to crack, and blames me for that, too.  "Do you have a rabbit in here?"

            "A rabbit, sir?"

            "Yes, Hess.  A rabbit.  The doctor informs me that Lieutentant Reed suffered a severe allergic reaction to rabbit hair, and this is the _only_ place I could think of him picking it up." Repeated use of my _last _name as opposed to his more common familiarity is simply proof that he's pissed.

            "Surely the captain understands that keeping a pet would be in violation of the rules."  I pointedly ignore Porthos squirming in his master's arms.  I'm pretty sure _he's_ here to flush out any contraband fur that might be hopping around because there's no other reason for the captain to bring him.

            "Since when have the rules ever been a concern of yours?"  The captain sets Porthos down, and the little angel comes running to me and sits up, begging.

            See, while I am – as I told Commander Tucker the other day – a cat person, I do know a bit about dogs.  I've been sneaking the mutt in here since this voyage began, just to get him used to the smell, so he doesn't get curious.  And while the captain says 'no cheese', he didn't say anything about liver.

            I hand him a couple of treats, just to make sure he remembers me.  Captain Archer looks steamed, as though he can't believe his dog prefers _me_ over _him_.  Then again, he's not the one with the food.

            "I am always concerned with the rules, sir."  As my wonderful mentor once explained:  if you don't know what the rules are, you won't know how to break them.

            "I'm sure you are, Hess." If his sarcasm got any sharper I could shave my legs with it.  "However, if I can prove that you deliberately did anything to Lieutenant Reed, I will be adding it to the list of charges."

            "Yes, sir."

            Dinner arrives at that point, and provides the captain a chance to escape.  Before he goes…

            "You wouldn't happen to know anything about why several engineers have been downloading copies of the Starfleet Assignments Classifications Manual[5], would you?"

            "Sir?" Basic rule of law:  an individual cannot be assumed to know the unstated intentions of another individual thus any evidence of such type presented in those matters is inadmissible.

            "I thought not."  He leaves, but not without looking suspicious. I _know_ he thinks I'm up to something; he just doesn't know what.  And _that_ makes me worried.

* * *

[1] Ah, the panic of a leashed up gossip hound.  The poor boy.

[2] Melodrama?  What melodrama?  Us?  Surely you jest.

[3]  My quadraped companions.  One says meow.  The other just wrinkles his nose and flicks his ears.  Any questions?

[4]  Innocent until proven guilty you know.  Though I know he thinks me to be as guilty as sin.

[5]  This is why I love bureaucracy.  There's actually an entire manual listing any and every job classification in Starfleet and the precise duties that go along with.  Like I said:  Work to Rule.


	4. Deprivations

> Disclaimer: These are not my characters. This story is for entertainment purposes only.
> 
> Author's note: I hope it is (entertaining). Read and review and let me know! Thanks to my beta readers, and anybody with ideas (even for other possible stories in the series) can let me know on my email, it's on my profile page. And (of course) if you really, really like… pass the word.
> 
> Author's Note 2: Julie: B&B? And how?
> 
> Chapter 3: Deprivations
> 
> From: Prisoner No 1
> 
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> To: Prisoner No 2
> 
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> 
> Re: Meals
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> Why has CA insisted you be fed nothing but liver and onions from now on? What have you done to make him wish you such harm? While B-vitamins are useful in some circumstances, such as when one wishes to recover from a (rare) night of overindulgence, surely he cannot think this is the case with you. And if your situation is so dire that it _is_ the case… you must keep hope.
> 
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> From: Prisoner No 2
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> To: Prisoner No 1
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> Re: Archer hates me.
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> No, there is no need to worry on that front. Even if there were, I am sure such items would be considered contraband and our ever-vigilant Lieutenant would have taken them away by now. No, our esteemed captain seems to have gotten it into his head that I am inciting his best friend to mutiny. But there have always been three of us, dear heart; Porthos has merely returned to the fold. And like in the days of D'Artagnan, I know that justice will prevail and that we brave Musketeers shall be delivered. I pray – of course – that this time there will not be bloodshed.
> 
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> From: Prisoner No 1
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> To: Prisoner No 2
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> Re: I was aware of that.
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> Yes, I know he hates you, but that still doesn't explain: _liver_?
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> From: Prisoner No 2
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> Re: Liver
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> What do you think I used to bribe the mutt?
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> …………………………………………………………………………………..
> 
> "Lieutenant." A whisper from the air duct attracts my attention.
> 
> "I'm not sure." I climb on top of my bunk to get closer -- not to see who it is -- there aren't a lot of people small enough to climb through those things comfortably. _I_ could, but I'm pretty sure – at this point – it's not me.
> 
> "I'm here to give you this." Something small and narrow is slipped through the duct grating.
> 
> "I'm grateful, believe me, but what is it?"
> 
> "It's to sweep for bugs."
> 
> "Oh. Thank you." I don't think it would be polite to tell them that I do that anyway, and that I turn them on and off at odd intervals just to piss whomever's listening off. Since it's obvious that my visitor would like some privacy, I make sure that all of them are off except for the one I've wired to Muzak.
> 
> "Okay. Now what?" I'm whispering too -- it's contagious.
> 
> "Can you take the grating off, please?"
> 
> I do as requested, and Crewman Saunders slithers through the opening. She drops lightly down to the floor, but only after I tell her where to put her feet.
> 
> "Thank you. I'm here as a representative of the EEU, to inform you that membership has reached 100% -- at least among the engineering and maintenance departments." She no longer whispers, but keeps her voice low.
> 
> "That's wonderful. And so soon. Tell me, are things truly that bad?"
> 
> "Well, we had to forge a couple of people's names on the document… Bryson and Higgens' to be exact – they're glad to be rid of you both – but on paper we have 100%. _And_, given recent events with Lieutenant Reed, we've decided to give you a hand."
> 
> "Really?" This is a bit of an unexpected surprise, but it's not impossible to believe. We – in engineering – have always had our troubles with the armoury[1]. "And what precisely do you mean by that?" I was under the impression that this whole thing was for the express purpose of getting myself and the commander sprung, so I hope it hasn't gone off course.
> 
> "Apparently they're going to move you to another set of quarters. Since you obviously can't take everything with you…"
> 
> "That is very kind. However, there is no documented proof that…"
> 
> "They're planning to tear this place apart. We can have a team in here tonight to move anybody who needs to be moved, and their gear as well."
> 
> I give her a quick hug. "You are wonderful, you guys. The last thing I want is for Igor and Evil Thing to be exiled into the doctor's care. While he's outstanding with animals, I am sure…" There's a reason those two have their names. Neither one comes from excellent backgrounds, and there is definitely some scarring. They need special care, and they count on me to provide it.
> 
> "We can have them to you within an hour of your move. Crewman Bitten says it must be difficult having to deal with so little outside contact. He's amazed that you and Commander Tucker haven't already gone insane."
> 
> Well, there are some who would question that. The use of the word 'gone', specifically.
> 
> "Yes. Please. And if you could tell him where I will be staying? Let him know I'm okay?"
> 
> "Absolutely." She climbs back into the duct and I replace the grille behind her. So, I've gotten to Malcolm that badly, eh?
> 
> ………………………………………………………………………………………………
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> .
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> From: Prisoner No 1
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> To: Prisoner No 2
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> Re: Moving
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> Thank God, you're all right, I was in a panic when you didn't answer. Only when your graceful messenger informed me that they had moved you for 'security purposes' did I begin to breathe again. What could you have possibly done to warrant such a drastic procedure? Surely not a simple accident that would never have happened but for someone else's physical weakness. My heart cries when I think of you alone, trapped in some bare cubicle, with no further source of distraction. Such horrible deprivations must surely count as torture…I only wish I could be there to ease your pain.
> 
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> From: Prisoner No 2
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> To: Prisoner No 1
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> Your concern warms my heart and stirs my soul in a way that nothing else could. Thankfully I was allowed to pack a bag, so I am not totally without distraction. And while I appreciate your kind offer, I think that such an act could be considered a hanging offence. And, the way things are going, we shall probably find that Mr. Reed has adverse reactions to hemp. So, while it pains me for us to be apart, I fear we must, at least for a while longer. I only hope you can still love me, after I have wasted away from this scurvy.
> 
> .
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> From: Prisoner No 1
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> To: Prisoner No 2
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> Scurvy? My breath comes in great sobbing gasps and I cannot stem the flow of these tears. My darling, what should I do? I doubt I shall survive!
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> From: Prisoner No 2
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> To: Prisoner No 1
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> Perhaps you should stop laughing.
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> ………………………………………………………………………………………………
> 
> Needless to say, my moving changes nothing. You can take the lieutenant out of her quarters… but if you don't find the rabbit you're not going to change the fur situation. Not only that, but word is spreading to other departments on the ship. While it may be difficult to get Science to go along with the idea (mostly because it means they'll get Brigman and Schacter _back_), everyone else seems cool with it. After all, _they_ had fun during the war too, and they don't think it's fair that Malcolm gets away clean[2] while the commander and I suffer. Apparently even some of the lower downs in the armoury are getting in on it: since Commander Tucker and I have been locked up, Malcolm has been miserable and has taken it out on them. And while it can be argued that the commander and I are the sources of that misery[3], it's so much more satisfying for them to blame Lieutenant Reed.
> 
> For anyone who's never experienced one, a Work to Rule campaign is a very effective tactic in most service situations. What it means is that people do their jobs, and _only_ their jobs to the _letter_ of the job description. Or, in other words, communications engineers do not do maintenance, even on communications equipment. People on housekeeping duties[4] do not help out in the kitchen or deliver messages, even if the other departments are short-staffed. And since you are – technically – following the rules… there is very little that can be done about it. And while there is no legal precedent in a quasi-military set-up like Starfleet – Starfleet does keep insisting that they are not a military organisation. Thus, if they are even a paramilitary organisation like – for example – a police department… we _can_ unionize; we _can_ work to rule; and we _can_ -- if necessary (and properly voted upon) -- go on strike. Okay, so the officers will have to handle everything. I never said there wasn't an advantage to being up on charges…
> 
> ………………………………………………………………………………………………
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> From: Prisoner No 1
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> To: Prisoner No 2
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> Re: Captain, my captain.
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> Why is CA muttering about putting a stake through your heart if he thought it would work? While I realise that you have the appearance of a Pixie on Acid and the temperament of a Squirrel on Amphetamines, surely the captain realises that neither one of those is applicable to the stake treatment. He keeps calling you Ness, too, and says you seem to think you're Untouchable. What have you done to cause him such enmity? Please understand that it is quite difficult for me, caught as I am between the two of you. While my first loyalty will always be to you, I cannot help but feel sorry for him at this time. Especially since he seemed so uncomfortable.
> 
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> From: Prisoner No 2
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> To: Prisoner No 1
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> Re: Elliot
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> I am not Untouchable… I have never supported Prohibition. As for the other? How can I be doing anything when I am locked away in some sterile set of rooms with no one but myself (and the occasional Malcolm) to talk to? Perhaps his lack of comfort has something to do with the regulation amount of starch in his shorts.
> 
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> From: Prisoner No 1
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> To: Prisoner No 2
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> Re: Bitch
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> Hess, you are cruel. They also did _my_ laundry.
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> ………………………………………………………………………………………………
> 
> Laundry. I hadn't quite realised how that would be affected, but -- now that I think about it -- there _is_ a laundry manual, and it does specify precisely how much of each agent is to be used with each article of clothing to create regulation appearance. The problem being that most uniform codes don't take into account that someone has to actually wear the uniform. The only person who seems unaffected[5] is Lieutenant Reed, and that's probably because he's the only one with _less_ starch than normal. As I mentioned, he's the only visitor I get now. Apparently, it's so Captain Archer doesn't find himself charged with the murder of yours truly. The shots the doctor is giving the lieutenant are helping immensely, but the only reason Malcolm comes to see me is to question me about events I know nothing about.
> 
> "Come on, Hess. Don't tell me you don't know _anything_. There was a meeting in your quarters before any of this started." Malcolm sits backwards on the only chair in the room, meaning I have to stand or use the bed. It's supposed to give the illusion that he's in control of the situation, but I've countered that by lying down. Since I'm obviously the most comfortable… who's running the show here?
> 
> "Some crewmen wanted some legal advice. About what, I cannot say. Surely you can understand that." I stare up at the ceiling and start to play connect the dots with the holes in the soundproofing.
> 
> "It's just very _coincidental_ that you seem to have a meeting in your quarters right before everybody – at least every engineer below the rank of Ensign – starts to act strangely." He's trying to ignore my finger tracing imaginary patterns in the air. It doesn't help that I'm not a uniform type of girl, so, now that I don't have to, I'm not wearing one. Apparently either my short skirt or halter-top is very distracting to him. Or maybe it's the pairing with the engineering boots[6]. And you'd think – being British – he'd be familiar with the quasi-punk look.
> 
> "Hess, are you on something?"  
"Something?" I can't imagine what he means. "I'm on the bed, if that's what you mean."
> 
> God, that man can turn red. He's almost as good as Commander Tucker. "I mean any sort of illicit substances, Hess."
> 
> I think about it for a moment. "No."
> 
> "So, what is going on with the engineers? And the rest of the support staff?"
> 
> "Mmmn. Well, I'm a little out of the loop, but I think Crewman Nellis and Crewman Dale are seeing each other. Of course this is behind Crewman Pickering's back…"
> 
> "HESS! I am not talking about petty gossip here. I want to know why this ship is shutting down!"
> 
> I sit up, quickly. "The ship is shutting down? Are you crazy? What are you doing here, then? I mean if the entire ship shuts down, the containment can go on the warp engine… surely you know that can't be good."
> 
> I hear a tooth crack. Oops, that's gotta hurt.
> 
> "The ship is not shutting down, Hess. It was a figure of speech." He speaks very slowly but not too clearly -- even though he is trying to enunciate every word. Unfortunately, he can't close his mouth properly so it comes out along the lines of : "Uh ip i not uttid down hess. It wath a figre o shpeek." He gets up and stalks out the door – too bad it's a slider and he can't slam it behind him. Poor Malcolm. And I'm not even really trying.
> 
> * * *
> 
> [1] Like when they 'borrow' our tools. Our _tools_. Go on. Ask Chef if you can borrow his knives. Then, after you have to steal them, don't give them back.
> 
> [2] So to speak. I mean he _was_ covered in dye… and there's everything that's happened to him since then… but he didn't get _charged_ with anything.
> 
> [3] Hey, it can't _all_ be my fault.
> 
> [4] Yes, we're responsible for our own quarters, but do you think the other rooms clean themselves?
> 
> [5] Aside from me, but then again, I always wash my own undergarments. It's safer.
> 
> [6] What? You don't expect me to give up my custom-made boots just because I'm wearing a _skirt_ do you?


	5. The Thought Plickens

Disclaimer: These – well, most of the characters involved in these discussions _are_ my characters. People referenced are not. (Hey, it's not my fault the writers ignore the rank and file… but read on to find how dangerous that can be). This is… obviously… for entertainment purposes only.

Author's Note: Sorry this took so long… but the computer had to go to the shop… and it had all the files on it. The only thing I _could_ work on was Summer Camp (and only because I'd just posted and had nothing more written). Again, I apologise, I apologise, I apologise. Still, I'd like to hear what you think. (That's right… the nice little review button. You are feeling very sleepy….you will listen to my suggestions… you _want_ to review. You _want_ to review. You _will_ review. Now, awaken, feeling happy and refreshed. And please… review) Thank you to my beta readers… though another delay was from the one who lives _ten minutes away from me_. You'd think she'd have been able to get it back (I told you I was gonna blame you).

Chapter 4: The Thought Plickens

Narrator's note: The following account is based solely on third party recountings and therefore can neither be considered accurate nor admissible as evidence in any legal proceedings.

In a dark corridor deep in the bowels of the ship, the first official meeting of the EEU executive council comes to order.

"So far, aside from making Captain Archer cranky and uncomfortable, have we actually accomplished anything?" Acting Secretary[1] Amy Lysdale looks over a small pile of efficiency reports. "Admittedly the numbers show us down to a 68% rating… sixty-three for engineering, but from what we can observe, there has been no action on our demands."

"Well that's probably because we haven't presented our demands yet." Acting President Bitten steps in to clarify the situation. Every eye on the executive council fixes him with a dark look.[2]

"He hasn't asked for them yet." Bitten sighs. "Given the nature of our demands, we can't just walk up and tell him we want Lieutenant Hess and Commander Tucker returned to duty. He'll merely smile and nod and put 'Incitement to Mutiny' on the charge-list. We need to wait until _he's_ ready to negotiate. Now, obviously our Work To Rule campaign is having little effect. Admittedly, he is cranky – which has actually helped our membership – but he's still not desperate enough. We need him to recognise the strength of our solidarity movement and realise that without the cooperation of the rank and file, his ship cannot properly function. I suggest, therefore, that we move on to the next phase of our job action."[3]

"I've been wondering about that," Acting PR Director Saunders finishes handing out the coffees and takes her place at the table.[4] "Surely the Captain can merely order us to work. A withdrawal of services… even with the backing of the union membership, could prove a risky endeavour."

"There is no reward without risk," Bitten begins to pace, playing to his audience. "However, I do believe I have a solution. As our legal advisor mentioned, we are considered to be a paramilitary organisation, much along the lines of a police force. Now one of the tactics used throughout policing history is the 'blue flu', or the 'sickout'. I suggest that this is the course of action we pursue."

"But… surely all Captain Archer need do is send us to Dr. Pholx. And he will confirm that we are not ill." Acting Treasurer Gurjit Singh looks dubious considering the prospect of a sickout.

"You're with Command Support, right?" Bitten gives her his most gentle smile.

"Yes, but…"

"Then it's understandable that you don't have an engineer's approach to this." The other engineers around the table nod, realising where he's going with this.

"You plan to engineer an illness?" Singh becomes a little nervous. Engineers with ideas do that to people.

"In a manner of speaking. Saunders… do you think you could get Dr. Phlox's scanner?" Bitten's smile widens as he sees understanding grow with the others.

"Yes, sir. I know Crewman Cutler would be happy to help us out in this instance. While she is fond of Dr. Phlox… she is also sympathetic to our situation." Since Crewman Cutler has had to work closely with Brigman and Schacter, it's hardly surprising. "And if she doesn't seem amenable… there are other ways of getting to the equipment."

"Excellent. Now we need something major enough to keep people away from work, but minor enough to not cause a panic. Not only that… but it has to be something that Phlox would let run it's course rather than treat it. We'll also have to make sure the scanners only identify the illness in the crewmen who participate in the sickout… because even Phlox will become suspicious if _everybody_ has the same illness… symptoms or not."

"I'll get started on a program for that now." Lysdale grabs one of the pads and begins to make notes. Given that she's Acting Secretary, she should have been doing that all along… but some people just tend to gravitate to the wrong jobs. On the other hand… clandestine meetings probably shouldn't have note-takers.

"Perhaps something intestinal," Saunders suggests, "That will explain why we can't go to work… but it's rarely fatal."

Bitten nods. "We will, of course, have to let all involved know to make copious use of the facilities to make the story work. While I trust Captain Archer with my life, I don't trust him at all when it comes to my lies."

Everyone nods at that one. Captain Archer has had way too much experience with Commander Tucker to fall for anything except the most heavily backed up deception. Which is why the commander defaults to telling the truth,[5] which drives the captain crazy.

"So, what levels are we looking at here?" As a programmer, Lysdale tends to get a little obsessed with numbers.

"Mmmm, something around four percent to start, I would think. Move it up to six on day two… and we'll look at the expansion from there. Saunders… we're going to need you to find some volunteers. Try to get a wide representation… at this point we're still focussing on it looking real. As things progress it'll become obvious that it's a tactic… but hopefully by then the captain will be interested in getting things online again."

"At the very least, the senior crew will be on his case," Acting Armoury rep Devon McDale speaks up for the first time. "I know Lieutenant Reed suspects something is going on, but he can't confirm what. And given his reputation for paranoia… he's going to figure it out sooner or later."

"Yes, Lieutenant Reed could be a problem. Do you think you could inform him of our activities?"

"I think I can send him a few clues," McDale agrees. "What do you want him to look for?"

"Lieutenant Hess." The entire council cracks up at that one. "I've heard he's a little obsessed in that direction anyway."

"Is it true she actually broke his tooth?" Lysdale looks to McDale for confirmation.

"Well, apparently he broke it himself, but your lieutenant was definitely a mitigating factor." McDale grins. "He's not too happy with her right now."

Bitten grins as well. "Well… book says odds are 20-1 in her favour. So far she's been doing a pretty good job… and if I know Lieutenant Hess, she's not even trying."

The meeting ends with a flurry of people rushing to place their bets.[6]

* * *

[1] Without time for an actual election all positions are considered to be merely temporary.

[2] With the exception of his own. Talented as he is, Bitten still can't glare at himself without a mirror. Thus proving he is no Commander Tucker.

[3] He's been paying close attention to myself and Commander Tucker – maybe too much. Speechifying can be contagious.

[4] Absconded with from the mess hall. These _are_ mostly engineers after all.

[5] Just not the whole truth. The trick is to figure out what details he's _not_ giving you.#

[6] We make book on _everything_ around here. Usually it's me, but given the current situation I've had to hand things off to Bitten. I mean I can hardly make the book when I'm the one they're betting on.

> > > > > # And people say _I_ talk like a lawyer


	6. The Best Laid Plans

Disclaimer: These are not my characters… this is for entertainment purposes only.

Author's note: Thank you to both of my beta readers… as for the rest of you… please review… I'm feeling so lonely. And sad…

**Chapter Five: The Best Laid Plans...**

From: Prisoner No 1

.

To: Prisoner No 2

.

Re: Contagion

.

Why is CA saying you're the one who's made everybody sick? Please tell me you're not ailing. My heart bleeds to think of you suffering there – all alone. And why is he giving me Dr. Phlox's scanners to look over… when I'm under arrest? He muttered something about foxes, henhouses, and engineering crew… what possibly could he mean? When I asked him how you were, he informed me that you were just rosy. Is it a fever then? Am I in danger? You know my complexion isn't well suited to pink, especially that particular shade. And why was Malcolm trying to find out if you're interested in him? I mean he didn't come out and say it… but he definitely had a few odd questions for me.

.

.

.

From: Prisoner No 2

.

To: Prisoner No 1

.

Re: AHHHHHH!!!

.

Do NOT, under any circumstances touch those scanners. As you mentioned, you are under arrest, and therefore are not obligated to perform any acts to aid our imprisoners. I have no knowledge of any kind of outbreak on the ship… though it makes me glad I'm in isolation if there is one. I am not running any kind of fever… I do believe the captain was referring to my state of health as being robust… it had nothing to do with my colouring (I hope). As for Malcolm… I haven't got the slightest clue. At all. Period.

.

.

.

From: Prisoner No 1

.

To: Prisoner No 2

.

Re: Wedding

.

AHHHH! This is a dream come true! Two of my best friends… can I be a bridesmaid? Or… Malcolm _might_ want me for best man, after all. Oh, and we have to have Chef do the catering… CA can perform the ceremony…we'll definitely have to invest in flowers… I wonder if you can get those from the quartermaster… definitely _lots_ of sparklies for your wedding dress….

.

.

.

From: Prisoner No 2

.

To: Prisoner No 1

.

Re: You're being an idiot.

.

Stop planning my wedding… Malcolm and I are not getting married; we can't spend ten minutes together without the man doing some sort of physical damage to himself and running away. And if you think anything can be accomplished in ten minutes… then you are not the man the ladies take you for. While I'll admit the idea of you in a bridesmaid's dress is amusing… the shoes could be a problem. Especially since I know you have a certain… scent to your feet. Sparklies are nice, though. I like sparklies… but I must go, my dear. My nemesis' minion beckons.

…………………………………………………………………………………………….

Me? Interested in Malcolm? Now whose insane idea is _that_? While I admit he definitely is quite easy on the eyes, there is _no_ way in hell we'd last beyond half a first date before I'd drink him under the table or he'd have to run away with some injury or another. Not only that… but I like lights and parties, and he's the type to hide away with a heavy book. Not only _that_…

"Hess. Open the door." What? He's not going to open it himself?

I stalk over to the door, and this time I'm the one regretting it's a slider. It means I can't yank it open on him. Still… "What?"

He blinks, and his jaw hangs open for a moment before he gets a grip on himself. "I'm here for another inspection, Hess."

"Fine. I'll just wait outside." I actually get one foot out the door before he grabs me.

"I don't think so, Hess. I'd rather have you in here with me." He glares at my guards who have suddenly developed wide grins.

I glare at them too. The grins disappear when I do it, mainly because they're more afraid of me than him. He's only likely to have them reprimanded, _I'm_ likely to dismantle them. They straighten up and look away as the door closes.

"Fine. I'll wait in the bathroom, then." I try to go there, but he doesn't loosen his grip on my arm. _Damn_, he has strong hands.

"I don't think so, Hess. I want to keep an eye on you. The captain sent me to look for any illicit communications equipment…"

I try to remain calm, knowing that he doesn't _have_ to be talking about my communications with Commander Tucker. "Well, there's all the bugs you've installed. I mean I'm sure they're here, just like you had them in my old quarters."

"Yes, Hess, _I_ installed them. Which means they're not illicit."

"Oh, so you admit to listening to me sleep." This gets the reaction I'm looking for – he's thrown off a bit.

"It's not that entertaining, Hess. That snore can get a little grating." He's trying to recover; he thinks he can beat me at the smart-ass game.

"I do _not…_" I lower my voice, not wanting to fuel suspicions at the door. "I do not snore."

He smirks at me, and I notice he still hasn't begun his search. "Just like Commander Tucker doesn't drool." This is not as kinky as it sounds. Commander Tucker works himself so hard that on occasion he's fallen asleep at his desk. We're usually pretty polite and just stick some shop towels under his head so he doesn't drown.[1] And I'm sure Malcolm had some opportunity to see for himself when they were trapped in the shuttle-pod.

He's still wearing the smirk as his eyes travel up and down my frame. Suddenly I'm regretting going for the quasi-punk look again today… even with the studded collar and wrist bands. "So, where is it then, I wonder?"

I'm going to kill that big-mouthed romantic sap. I'm going to pound his perfect face flat and rip out every strand of that surfer blond hair and shove it down his throat. Whose side does he think he's _on_ anyway? "Where's what? I don't have a communicator on me… you confiscated it, remember?"

"Not that, Hess." His grin gets wider. "The tattoo. Commander Tucker said that you said you had a tattoo, and it was on a body part he'd never seen. Now I can certainly see a lot of body parts…"

"Okay… that's enough. Either search, or…"

His lips twitch, and I realise how that could be taken. Fortunately he's loosened his grip on my arm enough for me to pull away. "I _am_ going to wait in the bathroom. And I don't even want to _know_ what you guys were drinking when he told you that." I stalk into the bathroom and lock the door. How dare he! How _dare_ he!!

"Are you turning red, Hess?" There's definitely laughter in Malcolm's voice now. "And I thought that we were actually…"

Again I wish I could yank the door open, sliders destroy all the drama. "Malcolm. I am not, and never have been, the least bit attracted to you. While you do have many physical attributes I find appealing, we have such diametrically opposed personalities that we would end up killing each other on the first date. Now, the communications equipment is in the second drawer of my desk…" No it's not, but there's some cobbled together components that I might be able to get away with… "So if you'll excuse me, I have to wash my hair. And no, you may _not_ watch." Turnabout may be fair play, but not when it's happening to me.

He murmurs something that I can barely catch. "Scarlett."

Now I'm _really_ going to kill that boy. I don't know how he found out what my real first name is[2]but he should have known better than to reveal it to anyone, let alone some tight-assed, armoury officer whose main love affair is with the rules.

"That's _classified_ information." I hiss through clenched teeth.

"Yes, and I am the head of security around here." His face is so close, I could bite his nose. "He told me it suited you – that you were a regular Scarlett O'Hara[3] – but I couldn't believe it."

"Well, don't. Because Scarlett ended up alone and miserable, and I have no intentions of being miserable." I pull back inside and lock the door again. Someone, somewhere is going to _die_.

………………………………………………………………………………………………

From: Prisoner No 1

.

To: Prisoner No 2

.

Re: Hello

.

I've been trying to contact you for hours. Why aren't you answering?

.

.

.

From: Prisoner No 2

.

To: Prisoner No 1

.

Re: Bastard

.

Perhaps because I'm not speaking to you.

.

.

.

From: Prisoner No 1

.

To: Prisoner No 2

.

Oh.

.

…………………………………………………………………………………………….

Rumour reaches me as it always does -- this time it _is_ in the mashed potatoes. The captain took me off the liver and onions diet after Phlox told him it could be a danger to my health.[4] Apparently there has been some deviation from the plan… rather than a simple withdrawal of services, the union has decided to opt for a 'sick-out'. An excellent plan – if I do say so myself – and one that also explains Commander Tucker's line of questioning. It _still_ doesn't explain _Malcolm's_ line of questioning… perhaps he's the one who needs to see Dr. Phlox.

The buzzer sounds again, and reluctantly I open the door. Since dinner's already here, it can only be…  
"Malcolm." I stand aside to let him in, then close the door.

"Um… where's Lieutenant Hess?"

"_Malcolm_." My hair's not done and I'm dressed in sweatpants and a sweatshirt. Somehow when I'm like this, people fail to recognise me.

"Oh." He blinks rapidly. "Sorry. Message for you. Commander Tucker says to tell you – actually his exact words were '…tell that psychotic squirrel' – that he's definitely considering disloyalty. What does that mean?"

Oh, he is, is he? "Well, you can tell that ego-testicle bastard that he can switch any sides he likes. And now that I think about it, my brother can provide him with a pair of shoes."

"Um…" He glances around, nervously. _This_ is another reason we could never have a relationship: he can't keep up. Commander Tucker and I are Southerners – we've been known to not-speak-to-each-other at the top of our lungs. "Are you sure about that last part?"

"Yes. Anything else?"

He looks more closely at my face, like he's still not sure it's really me. "You know… you really do have lovely eyes."

"Don't lie to me, Malcolm. We both know what I really look like." Well, he didn't until now… but I was hoping to scare him.

He blinks rapidly. "And…"

There is definitely something wrong with this man's thought processes. I clap my hands onto his shoulders. "Good _night, _Malcolm. And don't forget to pass on my message."

He seems disappointed as he heads towards the door. "Good night… Scarlett."

"It's _Nic!_" I scream after him as he leaves but the only effect is to make the guards jump. That does it… I'm officially confused.

* * *

[1] Despite waking up on numerous occasions with damp towels under his cheek, he still insists he doesn't drool. I'm going to film him one day.

[2] Actually, I do. It's how he finds out anything. He just waves those magical fingers, and data pops up out of the ether. In other words, Commander Tucker is a hacker.

[3] There's a reason I go by Nic. Being from Georgia and being named Scarlett… sometimes parents are just plain cruel.

[4] He still won't give me bread and water, though.


	7. Conspiracy Theories

Disclaimer:  Many of these are not my characters.  This is for entertainment purposes only.

Author's note:  Thank you to my beta readers – gaianarchy and silvershadowfire – especially to shadow, whose wedding may just _be_ followed by a funeral… if they have to kill me and the best man (what – I ask you – is wrong with chaos at a wedding?).  Maybe we'll disturb you shadow… maybe we'll get along.  (Ominous end of the world music).  Maybe we won't insult each other at all… (thunder rumbles in the distance).  Maybe we'll be nice… (reality begins to break down).  Please, read and review… review… review… review… (echo fades in the empty inbox).

Chapter Six:  Conspiracy Theories

Narrator's Note:  Once again, the following records of events are based on third party reports.  The same caveat applies.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

            "Oh, my God, what did you _do_?"  Bitten collapses in laughter as McDale walks in the room.  The rest of the executive committee wear wide grins and begin applauding.

            "Well, you _said_ give him Lieutenant Hess.  And we figured since he's always complaining about being lonely…" McDale bows to his audience.  "I think maybe we should be planning a wedding[1].  Tell me… do you think Captain Archer would perform the ceremony?"

            The entire group cracks up at that one.

            "We've just gone from 20-1 for Hess to a 1-1 even match-up.  Dev, you're playing hell with my book.  Apparently she was screaming at him earlier tonight."

            "That was Hess?  Are you _sure?_"  McDale shakes his head. "I thought you guys had replaced her, and just hadn't told me."

            The entire group shakes their heads. 

"We would've told you… just to make sure that you didn't give the game away.  I think that's a damn good idea, if we need to talk to her directly… but we can't count on Lieutenant Reed not showing up."

"Especially now," cracks McDale.  "He's popping by on a regular basis.  Oh, he's got some sort of excuse or another… roses or orchids?"

            "Roses." Lysdale snaps.  "You can't have orchids at a wedding."

            "Why not?"

            "Because orchids are for funerals."  She gives him the kind of look that says 'Men are such idiots'.

            "Right.  So we save them for _after_ the wedding." Bitten grins.  "When we'll _have_ a funeral."

            At that point… the meeting breaks up.

……………………………………………………………………………………………

            "Malcolm, Malcolm, Malcolm."  Commander Tucker throws a friendly arm around Malcolm's shoulders and guides him over to the bed.  "Can't you see? She's playing hard-to-get.  Look, she's probably just sore at me for telling you about her name… and her tattoo.  Sit down.  Now.  Let's talk about this.  What makes you think she doesn't like you?"

            "She said so."

            "In those exact words?"  Commander Tucker smiles as Malcolm shakes his head.  "See?  Now I've been around Southern women all my life, and when they want you to go away, they'll tell you to go away."

            "Well, she _did_ do that."  Malcolm sighs and begins playing with the pillow-case.

            "What, _precisely_ did she say to you?"  Commander Tucker sits himself on the edge of his desk, the teacher dispensing wisdom to a favoured student.

            "You mean _after_ the 'ego-testicle bastard' message?  She told me not to lie to her… I told her she had lovely eyes… and that we both knew what she looked like.  Then she told me good night and threw me out."

            Commander Tucker freezes.  "What was she dressed like?"

            Again, this confuses Malcolm.  "It appeared to be loose fitting work-out gear."

            "And her hair?"

            "What about her hair?"

            "Was it in any way multi-coloured, sparkly, or styled in a decidedly non-natural way?"

            "No."  Malcolm studies his face. "Is that a problem?"

            "Maybe," Commander Tucker squeaks.  "Most people never see that.  I've only seen that once… and even I wouldn't have recognised her if she didn't say something.  She told me once that she thinks she looks _plain_ like that… which is something she's never wanted to be.  Remember… her brothers are all – apparently – good looking.  I mean… if the one who dropped her off at the Academy after a vacation is any indication… _I'd_ look plain beside him.  So she's always gone for something a little outrageous.  You might have scared her."

            "I didn't think a charging _elephant_ would scare Hess."

            Commander Tucker nods.  "Probably not, she'd probably just smack it one.  _I_ get away with things because we agreed a long time ago that we'd never be anything more than friends… but if she's attracted to you…"

            "She informed me that she wasn't."  Malcolm droops as he says it.

            "Pshh."  Commander Tucker waves a hand in the air.  "Don't give me that.  For one thing… Hess does not make flat out statements… she's a lawyer; she qualifies everything.  Now what did she say?"

            "That while I may have some physical attributes that she finds appealing we are too opposite in personality…"

            "Opposites attract.  It's physics." It seems his earlier concerns have disappeared.  "Now… obviously the usual 'candy and flowers' routine is out… this _is_ Hess we're talking about.  Have you considered laying one on her like you mean it?"

            Malcolm takes a couple of seconds to figure that one out.  "I like my jaw attached, thank you very much.  If she knocked out a tooth of yours for 'inappropriate swearing,' I'd hate to see what she'd do to me for an 'inappropriate kiss.'"

            "Well, that depends on whether or not she thought it was inappropriate.  At least you don't have to worry about the whole 'chain-of-command' and 'unequal ranks' thing." Commander Tucker jumps up and begins to pace.

            "No, it's more the triple reinforced boots and the highly trained martial artist thing that I'm worried about."  He sighs.  "She's right – it was just silly anyway…"

            Commander Tucker stops dead, then spins and turns on Malcolm.  "Don't say that.  Don't _ever_ say that.  The two of you are two of my closest friends – you are perfect for each other."

            Malcolm raises an eyebrow, suspiciously.  "Why does that statement worry me?  What's going on, Commander?"

            "Malcolm," Commander Tucker claps a hand to his chest.  "You have been complaining for about as long as I've known you about not having a woman in your life.  _This_ is your opportunity to change that.  _This_ is your chance to reach out and grab that brass ring marked happiness – though, I don't recommend you go with brass – and ride off into the sunset…"

            "Hold it."  Malcolm stands up and gives Commander Tucker a dark look.  "Aside from the mixed metaphors… this is sounding an awful lot like a set-up.  What are you planning?"

            "Only the wedding," Commander Tucker chirps[2].  "I still can't decide whose side of the wedding party to be on… after all I _have_ known Hess longer… but I'm pretty sure…"

            "Commander.  Even _if_ Lieutenant Hess and I _were_ to start a relationship… it is highly unlikely we would be getting married any time soon… if at all.  This is a side of you that is beginning to scare me.  Tell me, does Captain Archer know about your secret ambition to become a wedding planner?"  Malcolm edges towards the door, keeping a careful eye on Commander Tucker.

            "He'd only take it the wrong way.  I mean Captain Archer is a decent guy, but he just doesn't have a romantic's soul.  And I had the music all picked out and everything." He begins to pout.

            "Don't you think we should have a say in that?"

            Commander Tucker waves his hand in the air again.  "Don't be ridiculous, Malcolm.  Hess would only go with Billy Idol… and I hardly think that 'White Wedding' – as appropriate as the title may seem – is going to fit the bill.  Unless, of course, I _do_ need to get a shotgun…"

            "Right."  Malcolm hits the door button and escapes into the hallway.  He turns the two guards, who are trying not to look at him.  "Don't, under any circumstances, go in there.  I think the man is seriously unbalanced."  He glances back at the door.  "In fact, take out the 'I think.'"

* * *

[1] What is it with guys and weddings?  I mean… they _say_ it's the woman who wants the wedding… but look around, and all you'll see is guys working out how it should be done.  Okay, maybe it has something to do with the fact that there's usually some major strategic planning and possibly construction involved, but…

[2] Yes, he has a bad habit of sounding like cute furry animals.  I think he thinks it's endearing.


	8. Tears and Confusion

Disclaimer:  As usual.  Not my characters…. Entertainment only…

Author's note:  Thank you again to my lovely beta readers… where would I be without you?**_  You don't want to know the answer to that, Thrain_.  **Because you catch all those little things my inner-editor misses…_ **Oh, knock it off, so I'm not freakin' perfect**_… after those long, horrible days at work… **_Yeah, right, be grateful you even _have_ a job_**…  (sigh) Where would we be without our little voices?

 Please review… let me know if you like… let me know if you hate… or even if you're apathetic.  And now… on with the story

Chapter 7:  Tears and Confusion 

From:  Prisoner # 1

.

To:  Prisoner # 2

.

Please?

.

.

From:  Prisoner # 1

.

To:  Prisoner # 2

.

Please, please, please?

.

.

From:  Prisoner # 1

.

To:  Prisoner # 2

.

Please, please, please, pretty-please?

.

.

From:  Prisoner # 2

.

To:  Prisoner # 1

.

Fine.  We're speaking, but only because you grovelled.  Because I cannot imagine what could _possibly_ possess you to hand out such sensitive information to the enemy.  Such behaviour is _totally_ unacceptable in a gentleman.  Suppose I told him about your teddy bear?

.

.

From:  Prisoner # 1

.

To: Prisoner # 2

.

Don't you say a **_WORD_** about that bear.  That is a highly valued collectable, I'll have you know… and there is _no_ comparison.

.

.

From:  Prisoner # 2

.

To:  Prisoner # 1

.

Re:  Oh, yeah?

.

You're right, Mr. Fuzzy-Wuzzy deserves _much_ more than that.  I think I'll introduce him to…

.

.

From:  Prisoner # 1

.

To:  Prisoner # 2

.

Hess!

.

.

From:  Prisoner # 1

.

To: Prisoner # 2

.

Re:  You wouldn't.

.

Hess!  If you mention Mr. Fuzzy-Wuzzy to _anyone_, I'll…I'll… I'll tell Malcolm all about your secret fantasies about him.

.

.

From:  Prisoner # 2

.

To:  Prisoner # 1

.

What fantasies?

.

.

From:  Prisoner # 1

.

To:  Prisoner # 2

.

I'm sure I can think of something…

………………………………………………………………………………………………

            Bastard probably could.  Not only that, but Malcolm's liable to believe him and the last thing I want to do is encourage him.  Either of them.  Because I do like Malcolm – in a totally platonic way – and I'd hate to have to break his heart, or any other parts of his anatomy for that matter.[1]  And while killing Commander Tucker would be amusing… I'd probably have to take his job, which would not.  I'm not cut out for command.  I'm cut out to be the person _manipulating_ command.

            The sickout is proceeding nicely, especially since they haven't let up at all on the Work To Rule campaign.  The biggest victim in this is – of course – Rostov, but realistically there's only so much we can do.  After all, despite popular opinion to the contrary, I am not in control of this thing.

            "I am _begging_ you, Lieutenant.  Tell them to stop.  Because people have been sick, I've had to schedule double shifts to cover, and now _those_ people are getting sick, and _I'm_ not getting any sleep because apparently there are a large number of decisions that require 'administrative approval.'"  While there are circumstances where I am not adverse to seeing a man on his knees, this is merely pathetic.

            "There's nothing I can do, Rossie.  From what I can tell – which isn't much because I've been denied contact with pretty much all but a mentally deficient Malcolm – it's all legal and above-board.

            "Did you just call Lieutenant Reed mentally deficient?"  Rostov looks shocked.  Given however that he's just strung more words together than he ever has in his life, I can't blame him.

            "The words Lieutenant and Reed never once crossed my lips."  I reply, primly.  While there is only one Lieutenant Reed on board the ship, there is no way of proving that _Malcolm_ is not an imaginary friend.[2]  "Far be it from me to disparage the intelligence of our top armoury officer."  Especially when he does such a marvellous job of doing it to himself.

            "But you've got to do something, Lieutenant.  Give me a hint as to the filing system… or where you keep the schedule blanks.  Apparently the one in the computer isn't the right formula, or something… because I keep getting errors."  He actually begins to cry at this point.

            I refrain from pointing out that the reason for the errors _might_ be due to faulty data input.  _I've_ never had a problem with it, but that might be because I never use the damn thing.  It's ten times faster to draw the schedules up by hand and manually input the hours into the reports.  "I can't help you, Rossie."  The door slides open before I can make Rostov stand up, or even tell him where we keep the emergency chocolate.

            "_Mister Rostov._"  The sound of Malcolm's voice propels Rostov half-way to the ceiling.  "What is going on here?"

            "Um… um… I… er…"  I haven't seen Rostov this nervous since Commander Tucker and I told him that Forrest would be around for a surprise inspection – and that he (Rostov) was in charge – then went for a beer at the 602.  This wouldn't have been so bad had we not just dismantled an entire section of the engine the hard way[3]and hadn't gotten around to picking up the pieces yet.

            "I think you'd better go, Rossie.  I think the Lieutenant here would like to speak to me."

            "Please, ma'am…"  He walks slowly backwards.  "Just one little…"

            "Goodbye, Rossie."  I escort him to the door and push him gently outside.

            I turn back to Malcolm who looks nonplussed.

            "What was Rostov doing in your quarters, and in that position?  Surely, as a lawyer, you know the rules on fraternisation strictly prohibit…"

            "Oh, grow up."  What is it with men, anyway?  "For one thing, I am technically without rank, which would make it _his_ mistake more than mine.  Furthermore, my private life is _mine_, and under section…" I don't get any farther, mainly because there's another mouth blocking mine.  I'm tempted to push him away, but he's a surprisingly good kisser.  Since they are, in actual fact, a rarity, I allow myself a moment of enjoyment, knowing full well I can continue the conversation when he comes up for air.

            "… under section…"  It's a good thing he's talented, otherwise this could get tedious.

            "… you know, Malcolm, most men don't find legal lectures all that erotic."

            He grins, one of those wicked grins you normally see on the face of Commander Tucker.  "Neither do I, but it does seem to be an effective way to shut you up."

            I aim a cross-kick at his ankle, but he's expecting something and moves out of the way.

            "Now, now, Scarlett.  No violence.  I'd hate to have to add another 'assault on an officer' charge to that list."

            "Officer you may be, but you are certainly no gentleman."  Right now I'm itching to do serious violence to Shuttlepod One.  God _must_ work in mysterious ways, because what He could have been thinking when He decided to make Malcolm Reed and Charles Tucker the Third friends is beyond my comprehension.

            "Aww… and I thought I was being very gentle."  The grin widens further.

            "You have spent far too much time with a certain person of our mutual acquaintance, Malcolm.  Clearly you are suffering from an advanced case of Tuckeritis, which is defined as a misguided belief that you are a charming rogue.  While I am willing to forgive you… for I doubt you were aware of your level of susceptibility…"  If this goes on much longer I'm going to have to lock the door.

            I'm saved by the bell, or in this case, the com chime.  "Hello?"

            "Mister Reed… can you please report to my ready-room?"  Apparently the captain is going to ignore me.

            "Yes, sir.  Right away, sir."  You'd think Archer was in the room, the way Malcolm jumps.  He cuts the com and turns to me.  "Right.  Now, what do you know about people not showing up for work?"

            "I've heard there's an epidemic running around.  I hope it isn't serious."  My eyes widen.  "Malcolm!  Up until now I've been relatively safe in isolation.  I certainly hope that whatever it is isn't contagious, or that you aren't a carrier.  If you've deliberately exposed me to infection…"

            "It's not contagious, Hess.  Unless, of course, you have a binary brain.  We discovered the change in the medical scanners, and you can rest assured it has been fixed.  All we want to know is…"

            Hey, if it works for him…  I don't want to know what they want to know, because otherwise I might be compelled to answer the question.  And even though I don't know if I know, what it is they want to know, I can't take that risk.  Before he can recover, I hustle him out the door and off to his little meeting.  Then sit myself down for some serious strategic planning.

* * *

[1] The tooth doesn't count… he broke that himself.  As for the allergies… I'm supposed to be responsible for an accident of genetics?

[2] After all, coincidences do happen.

[3] The secret of being a good engineer is knowing when to run.  Preferably before you get hit by the shockwave.


	9. Capering

**Disclaimer**: I do not own the Enterprise characters… I've merely hi-jacked them. This is written for entertainment purposes only.

Author's note: Once again I'm picking names out… because I can't find evidence of their existence. In this case it's a middle name for Trip… if he has one, and you know it, let me know and I'll fix it. If not… well I'm sure the one I've picked will work. Thank you to my beta readers (gaianarchy and silvershadowfire) and sorry about the heart-attack, gaia… I really didn't mean to do that to you.

**Chapter 8: Capering**

From: Prisoner # 1

.

To: Prisoner # 2

.

Re: Longing

Oh, how I miss you… that gentle but sweet scent that signals your presence… your golden beauty. How I miss the way you yield to the slightest touch and the way your inner core melts against my tongue. I pine for your deep richness, your warm soft centre…your succulent mounds, the memory of your sweet nectar, soft against my lips. The way you make me feel inside – exploding with warmth and joy until there is no-one in the whole wide world but you. I am buried in the blissful haze of your presence, unwilling to surface…

.

From: Prisoner # 2

.

To: Prisoner # 1

.

Re: Help

.

Calm down, I'm sure you'll have your pecan pie soon enough. In the mean time, might I suggest a cold shower and possibly some therapy. While I admit to a certain lust for food myself, I fear you have slipped to the point where stalking seems reasonable. You may yet require use of your fingers, and Chef's skill with knives is considerable. And you know how protective he can be. Stay strong, for I am confident I will see you soon.

………………………………………………………………………………………………

Whether or not he sees me is another issue, entirely. Since I am on a stealth mission, the entire plan is that he doesn't. Unusually, _he_ is not my biggest obstacle; this time that role goes to the ubiquitous Malcolm. I swear, the man has been spending more time in my quarters than his own.

Since he's not here at the moment, I take full advantage and head for the bathroom. It locks and unlocks only from the inside[1]– another thing I take advantage of. Now, there are times when being small is a pain, but this is not one of them.

I start the shower running, then climb up on the sink so I can reach the ceiling. I pop one of the panels and pull myself inside. Regrettably, I have to leave my boots behind: this must be done on little cat feet – in this case, the sticky ones on the bottom of my slipper socks. Fortunately, Commander Tucker and I are housed on the same deck, so I'm not going to have to do any ladder work.

I've brought some gear with me, so this time I _can_ pry the panel up from the inside – this one being over Commander Tucker's sink. Despite the fact that he is not a habitually messy person[2], it is quite easy to tell that these toilet facilities are frequented by a male. There's a whiff of bad aim in the air, and even from here I can see that the paper dispenser is empty and the seat is up. Other than that, it's in better shape than my own, which means that I don't have to look out for toothpaste gobs as I descend. I tiptoe over to the door and lean my ear against it.

"Don't _tell_ me she can't have anything to do with it, Trip, she _always_ has something to do with things like this." Captain Archer sounds like a man who realises he's running out of rope and that it's the wrong head in the noose.

"Sir. I've never known her to cause intestinal… no, there was that once, with Jeffries… but she warned him that the sandwiches hadn't been properly refrigerated." Why he remembers things like that… I have no clue.

"Trip… there _is_ no intestinal disorder… not food poisoning, not some other bug… the scanners were reprogrammed. Which says to me: Engineering. Now, somehow I don't see Ensign Rostov making over a third of his crew appear sick… not with the extra work he's having to do. And I keep hearing another word cropping up: Union."

_Oh, shit_.

"Now, _that_ she is involved in." Commander Tucker's tone perks up. "At least I hope… Captain… no, I can't ask you yet… I don't want to jinx it."

There's no verbal response from Captain Archer, but I'm assuming that the commander is getting the Arched Eyebrow[3].

"Okay… okay. Well, you know how Malcolm is always complaining about how lonely he is…"

"_Commander Charles Gavin Tucker!_" Wow, I never knew the commander even _had_ a middle name. "_You will put _any_ thought of matching my armoury officer up with that… that…no._" I don't think I've _ever_ heard Captain Archer this upset. I _know_ I've never heard him shout this loud. He takes a deep breath and lowers his voice to something audible. "I thought he was your _friend_, Trip. Why would you want to do that to him?"

_Why would he want to do that to _me_?_

"Lieutenant Hess is my friend, too." I can barely hear Commander Tucker. "You don't have to be so mean to her…"

"Trip… are you… Trip… stop crying. You are a grown man… you are a Starfleet Commander… you are Chief Engineer of the Flagship of the fleet… stop _crying,_ damnit!"

"No. Because you're being mean. You're always so mean to her…" He pauses to blow his nose… poor baby. I'm beginning to reconsider my reason for coming. After all, right now he needs a hug.

"Trip…" Captain Archer sounds like he doesn't know what to say. If he's honest – which he tends to be – he's only going to make Commander Tucker more upset. But if he's not…

"Go away. I don't like you any more. You're mean."

There's a pause, then Captain Archer speaks again. "I'm calling Phlox. This is overboard, even for you."

_No… don't call the doctor… that just means I'll be here longer_. But sure enough… old Mister Soft-hearted makes the call.

Minutes tick by… then Phlox takes his time fussing over the patient, and I'm starting to lose mine. Finally he makes his diagnosis.

"Stress, captain. Commander Tucker has always been an active person… this forced confinement is very stressful for him. Perhaps I should look in on Lieutenant Hess as well."

_No. No, no, no. Looking in on Lieutenant Hess is not necessary. Lieutenant Hess is fine… Lieutenant Hess has outlets…_

"Lieutenant Hess doesn't suffer from stress… she's a carrier." Apparently Captain Archer has gone back to honest.

"You're being me-ean again…" The commander falls into another round of sobs.

"Doctor… can't you give him something for that?" The captain sounds like he's getting a headache.

"Perhaps you should try not being so 'mean' around him. I can see Commander Tucker's point, Captain. Lieutenant Hess is his friend and your comments do seem to be less than kind…"

"Oh, don't you start, too. I am merely stating that the level of stress Lieutenant Hess causes is greater than the amount she apparently…"

"WHAAAA!!!!"

"If you're going to behave like a child… you can stay in your room! And no dinner, either!!" Captain Archer stomps out… I bet he wishes _he_ could slam a door right now. From the sound of the feet, the doctor follows shortly after.

Several more minutes pass before the sniffles diminish. Then more footsteps, shuffling this way.

I bolt for the sink and get up in the crawlspace just before the door opens. Hopefully it's just a quick… no, he's having a shower. Not only that, but I've got a bad angle[4]. I'm beginning to rethink my plan, when he starts talking to himself.

"I'll show him. Malcolm and Nic are going to be the happiest people in the world. In the _universe_. Then we'll see who's suffering from 'overstress.'" He still sounds like he's crying… but now I'm not sympathetic.

_You bastard_. Just when I start feeling sorry for him… he does something like that.

Oh well, now's as good a time as any. With the sound of the shower covering my movements I clamber down again and head into the main room to begin my search. I know he's around here, somewhere…

The water stops, and there's footsteps heading to the bathroom door. Quickly I dive into the closest hiding spot I can find: under the bed. Apparently I'm not the only one with a bunny… though his seem to be solely of the dust variety. A pair of ankles appears in my line of vision as he begins rummaging through his dresser. He gets dressed… I didn't know he _had_ fluffy blue flannel p.j.'s. This is just too perfect.

He pads over, and climbs into bed. I hear some shifting above me, then… _Oh no, he isn't_… Yes, he is… the sounds are unmistakable.

_The Great Escape? Didn't we just _watch_ that?_ Not only that, but the movie's more than three freakin' hours long. _You are such a dead man._

Fortunately, the movie seems to be the commander's version of a goodnight story, because after about ten minutes he turns it off and turns down the lights. A few minutes later I hear gentle, even snores.

He looks so sweet when he's asleep. I mean, I don't even _have_ a maternal instinct[5]… and all think about when I see him asleep is what he'd look like as a kid. Actually, he _does_ look like a kid when he's asleep, all sweet and innocent.

There's just enough light to continue my search. I'm running out of options when…

"Mean."

I just about have a heart attack. Then I remember something.

"Hey, gorgeous."

A goofy smile spreads across his lips. "Hi, Nicci." His eyes stay nicely closed.

"I told you I'd come see you. Do you remember?"

"Uh, huh. Nice."

"Yes. Can you tell me where Mr. Fuzzy-Wuzzy is?" Commander Tucker is a _goldmine_ of information… especially if you can get him talking while he's asleep.

"Safe." Of course, sometimes you have to work at getting it out of him.

"Where, safe?"

"Closet. Top shelf. Safe." Not any more, he ain't.

"Thanks, gorgeous." I seize my hostage then drop a light kiss on the commander's brow. "Sleep tight. And don't worry about me. I can handle Mr. Meanie okay… I don't mind." I tuck Mr. Fuzzy-Wuzzy under Commander Tucker's arm.

"Okay." The smile widens, and he hugs his bear tight. Sometimes life is just too easy.

What? You think Commander Tucker is the only person on board Enterprise with a camera? I take shots from a couple of angles, including one where it looks like he's sucking his thumb. Then I carefully extricate Mr. Fuzzy-Wuzzy from his owner's grasp. The commander sighs, then rolls over to face the wall.

I move as quickly as I dare… fortunately I don't drop the ceiling panel. Then it's a matter of retracing my steps back to my quarters and…

One of my brothers once told me that I don't have a sixth sense… I have a ninth one[6]. Something tells me that it's been a little _too_ easy. Quickly I strip and duck into the shower – it's still running – then wrap myself in a towel before heading into the main area.

Good thing, because guess who's sitting on the bed, checking his watch?

"Scarlett. It's been over two hours… that must be a record. I'm surprised you aren't completely wrinkled."  
"Sir." I pull my towel tighter, as though he were unexpected. "Have you really been…"

He nods, a bemused smile on his face. "I was worried, though… I couldn't hear any movement or splashing and I thought that maybe you'd fallen and hurt yourself and were unable to call for help… I considered breaking down the door." He stands up and walks over to me, until we're standing nearly toe to toe. "I was worried about you, Scarlett…" His gaze travels downward, until it reaches my right foot. "Well, that's one mystery solved…"

I hold the foot out so he can get a better look. "Were you expecting a flower?"

"No, a fox definitely suits you, Scarlett." He leans closer, his lips just brushing mine. "Or, should I say, vixen. What should I tell Captain Archer about you? I think we can both agree…" he runs a finger lightly along my shoulder, "…that you were _not_ in the shower for more than two hours."

Perhaps I've underestimated him… I never would have thought he'd stoop to blackmail. "I've got three little words that might convince you not to say a thing…" I've _never_ been above a little bribery, however.

"And they would be?"

"Mr. Fuzzy-Wuzzy." I can tell he's interested, because his eyebrows nearly disappear into his hairline.

"That wouldn't happen to be your…" He begins to absently scratch his arm.

"No. Mr. Fuzzy-Wuzzy is a close personal companion of Commander Charles Tucker. Perhaps you'd like to meet him." Without waiting for an answer, I take a step back then turn and go back to the bathroom to retrieve my new bargaining chip.

Malcolm's eyes light up when he sees what I've got. "Well. That _is_ an unexpected surprise." There's a few things _he_ needs to get even with the commander over, too.

"You should see my pictures. Now. Let's get down to some serious negotiating." If Commander Tucker wants to play dirty… I can play very dirty indeed.

* * *

[1] Especially now that I've fixed it.

[2] At least by my standards

[3] Hey. This thing is powerful enough to _deserve_ capitals. It _compels_ elaboration… even from me.

[4] Not that there's something there I haven't seen before… but that's another story.

[5] I'm sure this confession would _thrill_ Captain Archer.

[6] I don't _sense_ when something's wrong… I'm generally the cause.


	10. Rivalries

**Disclaimer: I do not own these characters… even if I did flesh one of them out a bit.**

**Author's note: Sorry about the delay on updating… weddings are evil (marriage is fine, but weddings… the amount of time I've spent… and it's not even _my_ wedding). Throw in work, school prep… The fact that I'm _not_ Hess and need my eight hours a night… but without further ado:**

**Chapter 9: Rivalries**

From: Prisoner # 1

To: Prisoner # 2

Re: Abduction

Hess! Where is my bear??!! I know it had to be you… you're the only person besides me who knows about him.

From: Prisoner # 2

To: Prisoner # 1

Re: Mwhaaahahha

Not anymore.

From: Prisoner # 1

To: Prisoner # 2

Re: Murder.

I'm going to _kill_ you, Hess!!! Who did you tell??? It better not be Malcolm… it's Malcolm, isn't it? Hess, you bitch… give me back my bear!!! If you don't… I'm going to tell Captain Archer on you!!

From: Prisoner # 2

To: Prisoner # 1

Re: Baby

I am not a bitch… the only reason Porthos likes me is the liver. But go ahead… be a baby-little-tattle-tale. It's not like you can tell him stuff he doesn't already know or suspect… and how much do you want him knowing about your stuffies, anyway? Mr. Cry-baby-sucky-thumb?

………………………………………………………………………………………………

Actually, it's true. Malcolm and I have barely proceeded with our conversation when the door hisses open without announcement.

"What the hell is going on here?" Captain Archer is livid. I assume he took some time to calm down before coming to see me… but it doesn't appear to have worked.

"Um… we were discussing things, sir." Malcolm's back to his red appearance. His eyes are rolling back in his head, too.

"Is there something you wanted to ask me, captain?" Never confess, if you don't know the details about what they want. There are trick questions out there… like when the police officer says: "Do you know why I stopped you?" If you're not careful… you'll give them more to nail you with than when they started.

"Actually, Hess, there was. The word is Union."

"Captain, I can assure you, this is not what it looks like." Since Malcolm and I are sitting on my bed, and I'm only wearing a towel, I can understand his concern.

"Shut up, Malcolm." The captain stalks forward. "Why are the people of my ship organizing into an illegal union?"

"Actually, sir… under the law… forming a union is not illegal. A great many paramilitary organisations have unions, and…"

"Spare me the legal history lecture, Hess. I want to know what you have to do with this union. And don't tell me 'nothing,' because I'm not going to believe you. A stunt like this has your name written all _over_ it."

"Sir…" I raise my left hand, index and second fingers together and pointing upwards and the rest of them closed with the thumb curled over top.

"Knock it off, Hess. You were never a Boy Scout."

"As a matter of fact, sir, I was. Five brothers, sir. I got twenty-nine merit badges." Given that this is one more than Malcolm, I receive a _pair_ of icy stares. "There's also the citation of bravery from the city of Atlanta. Saving the life of a police officer, sir.[1]"

"Lieutenant…" Captain Archer's teeth are beginning to chatter – I think he's ready to bite.

"I _can't_ arrest her, sir. She's already _under_ arrest." Which is why I'm fairly safe at this moment.

"Are you certain we can't just shoot her?" Then again, maybe not.

"Not without upsetting Commander Tucker, sir."

The captain looks like he's about to scream. "If I have to listen to one more recitation about how I'm mean…"

"Sir?" Malcolm looks completely lost… which he is.

"Hess!" Captain Archer snaps. "I want you to tell Commander Tucker that I am not mean!"

"You're asking me to lie sir? To one of my best friends?" After all, I have no proof that he doesn't _somehow_ fall into the category of average[2].

The captain suddenly grins, and I'm reminded of Commander Tucker's stories about crocodiles. "But you _won't_ be lying Hess. Because I _am_ a very nice guy. I'm so nice, in fact, that you're going to tell me everything about this Union."

"Sir…"

It's my turn for the Arched Eyebrow. I scramble up on the bed and try to hide behind Malcolm.

"Hess… are you afraid of me? Surely the crew would find that…"

Spare me from amateurs and their pathetic attempts at blackmail. First Malcolm – which was at least a little interesting – and now this.

"Everyone's afraid of you, sir. It's because you're the captain. You can make their lives very, very miserable."

The grin widens. "But I'm a nice guy, Hess. I rather think that my crew _respects_ me, rather than fears me. Don't I have your respect?"

Okay, where did he get _his_ lawyer genes? Maybe he just dated one at Stanford. "Of course I respect you, sir. I have nothing but the utmost of respect for you, sir."

"Then you will have no problem in telling me whatever you know about this Union."

"Actually, sir… my problem is called the American Bar Association. They frown on things like that… and then they revoke your membership."

"We're not in the United States anymore, darlin'" I'm worried – he's starting to pick up Southernisms from Commander Tucker. He _must_ have lawyer in his background if he's willing to stoop to _that_. "And I certainly have no intentions of telling them."

"It's ethics, sir. Right now, for your sake, I would be glad to tell you everything I know… but I'm not _allowed_. It's like asking Dr. Phlox for medical details… or a priest to tell you what somebody said in Confession."

"For my sake?" His eyes narrow – he looks dangerously close to violence. I move out from behind Malcolm – I'm not going to put the boy in any _physical_ danger after all – and try to look as non-threatening as possible.

"You're obviously very stressed, sir. There are signs of Tuckeritis…"

"Tucker…"

"You just called me 'darlin',' sir. Coming from you, that's not good. Maybe you should see Doctor Phlox…"

"I'm not the one who's going to need a doctor."

"Actually sir, if I'm forced to defend myself, you are." I am _not_ threatening a senior officer – I am merely stating a pertinent fact.

"Hess…" The captain pulls himself up to his full – rather impressive – height.

"Sir!" Malcolm jumps up too suddenly and smacks his head on the top of the bunk, and accomplishes something that few people ever do: he knocks himself out.

"This," I point at Malcolm, now crumpled on the floor, "is not my fault."

"I don't care if it's your fault or not. I'm still blaming you."

"You can't do that, sir."

"Yes, I can, Hess. I'm the evil son-of-a-bitch in charge of this ship… and if I say you did it…"

"That's defamation of character sir… if Malcolm was awake it would be slander."

He sneers at me. "Just where did you get your law degree, anyway? Mail order?"

I shrug. "Just some dinky little school in SanFran… Stanford, I think they call it." I wouldn't be so nasty… except my UC Berkley side is kicking in. And since the captain is a fellow Stanford grad…

"You went to Cal." Given that the schools are massive rivals, I expected him to latch onto this fact… it's one of the reasons for his animosity.

"Yes, sir, I did. For Engineering, sir. Stanford Law, sir. It's a Hess tradition… and it was closer to where I needed to be than Harvard."

There's a little vein on the side of his head that's pulsing like crazy now. Several unpleasant facts have begun to hit all at once. One… I'm not as stupid as I act – most people can't handle Stanford Law (or Berkley Engineering) on it's _own_. I double majored the two[3]. Two… he's been arguing points of law with (not to mention denying basic rights to) a highly-trained lawyer. Three… my alumni outnumber _his_ alumni… and are probably better paid, too[4]. Four… he's still trying to wrap his head around the idea of combining a Cal education with a Stanford one. Five… he's trying to fit me into the image of a Stanford bunny, and failing miserably. Six… I've just (honestly) implied that there are Stanford _and_ Harvard law grads in my family, which means that if he tries anything, he could be – as Commander Tucker says – up to his ass in alligators[5].

"Don't you think we should call the doctor, sir? Malcolm might be hurt." After all, he _is_ rather delicate. Unlike a certain Floridian of our acquaintance, he does not have a skull made of adamantium.

The captain stalks over to the com and pages Doctor Phlox. By the time the doctor actually manages to arrive, Malcolm has woken up.

"What happened here?" I'm not sure if the doctor is just asking what happened to Malcolm, or thinks that it's part of some bizarre human sexual ritual[6].

"I…"

"Malcolm whacked himself on the head." I figure it's probably best for the clearheaded one to provide the details.

"Oh, dear." Phlox runs a few scans. "Well, he appears to have avoided a concussion… by the way, captain… why are people gathering in the lounge with signs? Is there some human tradition…"

Malcolm and Phlox manage to grab the captain as he lunges at me, which is a good thing, because my towel slips at that moment, and my hands are (reflexively) busy trying to keep anything important from showing. If they hadn't been there… well, being naked _can_ give you an advantage, if you know how to use it.

"I will get you for this, Hess… no one messes with my ship and gets away with it… I know this is your fault…" He almost gets away – he's that agitated – but Phlox hits him with a sedative, which is probably for the best. "I'll get you for this…" They carry him away as he loses consciousness… I wonder how they're going to explain _that_ one.

* * *

[1] I don't add that it was more cowardice than bravery – Mom would have _killed_ us we'd stood by and watched Uncle Ned's car sink… even if he _had_ been chasing us at the time. I _still_ don't know how we got classified as 'bystanders' over 'fugitives,' but that's life in our little family. 

[2] Statistically speaking, that is.

[3] It's not my fault I only sleep two hours a day. _I_ didn't pick out my genetic problems.

[4] And that's just the Stanford ones.

[5] Not that – I suppose – it's fair to compare alligators and lawyers… apparently alligators aren't that nasty.

[6] It _might_ be… but the captain would be better equipped to answer that one… Stanford frat boy and all.


	11. An Offer That Can't Be Refused

Disclaimer: Heretofore, it must be understood that the author of this work claims no ownership of the characters or setting belonging to the television program Enterprise, nor anything else related to said television program. The story, however, is the original work of the author. Apparently.

Author's note: Hope you like… I spent a lecture and a half putting this together (yes, any fellow LIBT students, this is what I'm really up to when I'm 'taking notes.') Please review… pretty please?

Chapter 10: An Offer That Can't Be Refused

About three hours later, my door opens again, to reveal a security contingent1, complete with Malcolm.

"While I appreciate the implication that I might be too much for you to handle on your own…"

Unfortunately, Malcolm's back to his 'I am chief of security… and you'd better damn well respect that' mode, so all he gives me is a glare. "The captain requests your presence, Hess… he wants you to 'advise' your clients to cease and desist."

"I would need to confer with any clients I might have, first. After all, ceasing and desisting may not be in their best interests, and I am obligated to look out for my clients first and foremost… the captain's stress level, while distressing, cannot be my primary concern… indeed, forced to choose between the two…"

Malcolm proves his familiarity with the Engineering junk drawer by pulling out a roll of duct tape. I make the cardinal error of being shocked, so I don't have time to react before he's slapped a piece of it over my mouth, and is binding my wrists with another length2.

"You realise that this qualifies as assault… and on an officer of the court, no less." At least that's what I try to say… but it doesn't come out as the most enunciated statement I've ever made.

"I'm sorry," he's borrowed the captain's crocodile grin, "did you have something that you wanted to say?"

I resort to sign language – one of the few gestures I know. He's been kind3enough to secure my hands in front of me, so he can still see what I'm saying.

"I'd love to, but this is neither the time nor the place." He nods at his companions. "Gentlemen…" They grab me and hold me so he can put restraints on my feet too.

"I was saying, fuck _yourself_, asshole." Unfortunately, duct tape isn't that easy to chew through, so it's still garbled4.

After he's done with the restraints, he picks me up and throws me over his shoulder, like I'm a sack of potatoes or something. I dig my nails – pitiful as they are – into his back, but he doesn't seem to feel it.

Or maybe he does. "A little lower… more to the right…"

"You're a dead man. Not even Commander Tucker will protect you now… I'm going to kill you… I'm going to chop your body into tiny pieces and flush you out the airlock a bit at a time. And I'm going to do it while you're still alive…"

"Well, I admit it would be hard to kill me when I'm dead… but I'm certain that if anyone could find a way, it would be you." I don't know how he understood me – maybe he was just taking a wild guess. The guards leave, and he begins to pack me down the hallway.

"I'm going to get you for this, you son-of-a-bitch… you are going to pay. Slowly and painfully. I have family… and _my_ family actually loves me…" I realise that last one might have gone a little far, because he suddenly drops me on my ass in the middle of the hallway – we don't have carpeting around here.

"I'm sorry, did that hurt?" Actually, it was a tactical error on his part, because I pull something out of my boot.

"Uh, uh, uh… I don't think so, Hess." He leans over to take it from me, then suddenly jumps back. A smart move, because I've just opened the switchblade I carry for emergencies. I saw through the wrist ties, then free my feet and stand up.

"You are _not_ any sort of gentleman, Mister Reed." I rip the tape from my mouth and throw it on the floor. "I don't care what your title or the copious inbreeding in your family history might imply…"

"One might assume that inbreeding belongs more with _your_ redneck background…"

"Are you calling me 'white trash,' boy? Let me tell you a little something, Mister Rabbity-Face…"

"All I'm suggesting is that your parents might have known each other a little longer than usual before they got married."

"Really? I suppose that's better than your parents – who despite their obvious genetic similarities – only met, and I use that term loosely, once."

He smacks me across the face, and I return the gesture, forgetting for a moment that this isn't Commander Tucker.

"_That_ is assault on an officer, Hess." His eyes narrow, and he steps closer, not worried anymore about the knife.

"A lady can slap any scoundrel who insults her honour like that." With the commander, I wouldn't even have to explain. "And my brothers will be perfectly within their rights when they remove your hide. And might I point out, that _you_ assaulted _me_ first… mine can be classified as self-defence."

"Your brothers won't get that chance." He's leaning in close enough now that I can smell his breath… he's been eating tuna and it's disgusting.

"Pity." I don't know quite _why_ I say that, but I do truly mean it. On the other hand, his meeting my brothers would provide me with the opportunity to be rid of him forever.

"Actually, why do I get the idea that they'd _thank_ me, especially if I turned you over my knee…"

"Oh, yes… you'd probably have fun with that. Well, listen buddy… _that_ damn near qualifies as sexual harassment, and I _can_ have you cashiered for that…"

"So, I can be inflicted with you in a towel… but _you_ can complain about a little turn of phrase. Try and find one person who will buy that 'sensitive' argument… _especially_ when I bring up the nature of your little 'communiqués' with Commander Tucker."

"You bastard… those were private messages…"

"Actually, those were security breaches. Amusing, though. I found them yesterday… it seems you two forgot the little 'archive' feature… and it wasn't too hard to trace the 'anonymous' authors."

It suddenly occurs to me that he's still intact… most people I would have dropped or disembowelled by now for invading my threat range. I have no time to explore the disturbing implications of this, however, because the com kicks in.

"Um… Lieutenant, this is Hoshi. I'm sorry, but the captain is looking for you… and he's wondering what the hell is taking you so long."

"We're on our way." Malcolm grabs my arm and begins hustling me along the hallway. Again, this is not something I would normally put up with… but since we're heading in the same direction and all, I let him get away with it.

"You realise, of course, that if one word of those gets out, that it's not _me_ you have to worry about. You have no idea how nasty that boy can be; he could outdo a squad of cheerleaders."5

"Last I heard, you could leave off the 'out,'" Malcolm mutters, and I can almost swear I hear a note of jealousy.

"Well, I wouldn't know," I tell him primly.

"You'd be one of the few."

I jerk him to a stop. "You know I'd really appreciate it if you'd stop sullying my Boy. He fully denies that incident ever happened, and when it comes to that, his word is final. Unlike _some_ people, he knows the definition of being a gentleman."

"The definition maybe," Malcolm mumbles. "I thought you just said…"

"I haven't. And I never will – unless some odd life threatening circumstances warrant it – but that does not stop him from being my Boy."

"Toy?" He raises both eyebrows, mockingly.

"Now, you are not only insulting me, but you are insulting my closest friend as well. Mister. Reed, I am having nothing more to do with you." With that, I toss my head, and start off down the corridor without him.

He grumbles something else, then hurries after me, obviously having been instructed to provide me with an escort. I have no idea why the captain doesn't trust me… after all, I'm _very_ dedicated to my clients… and they probably could use some advice right now – even if it isn't the advice he wants me to give them.

I know where I'm going… thanks to the Doctor's little comment about human social activities. The gathering has actually spilled outside the mess hall now, and they welcome me in, pushing Malcolm to the fringes. In the centre of the room, perched on a table is the president of the Enterprise General Union (formerly the Enterprise Engineers' Union).

The crowd closes in around me, trapping Malcolm on the fringes. Unlike Lieutenant Pompous, I've always been well-liked by the rank and file. I glance back to see him jumping up and down, trying to catch sight of me in the throng. I'm funnelled up to Bitten who pulls me up on the table with him.

"We're doing well," he beams at me, "almost everybody's here and fully committed."

"According to the captain, you should _be_ committed. However, there is very little he can do when faced with a collective bargaining unit. While he can attempt to have every single one of you cashiered – which is why I told you not to do this – it would be a difficult and arduous process, not to mention a highly embarrassing one." I look around at the assembled crowd. "I hope they're not expecting me to say something."

"Actually… _I_ wanted you here. I think the captain is getting ready to negotiate, and I'd like a little advice."

"Actually, I think the captain is a little closer to a nervous breakdown than anything…"

"May I have your attention, please." Captain Archer emerges from the kitchen, flanked by the senior staff. _He's_ escorting Mr. Tucker, who looks shocked. He's in a plain uniform with no insignia, and he's got that panicky look he gets when he doesn't know what to do. His hair's sticking out in places, like he was just hauled out of bed, which is entirely possible. "I am ordering you to disperse at once."

"Order noted, captain, but I am afraid we can't agree," Bitten draws himself up to full height, while I sit myself down. "After all, we are merely exercising our rights to Freedom of Assembly; Freedom of Belief; Freedom of Speech… each and every one of us is a member," he glances down at me, "or a contracted employee of the Enterprise General Union. We have orchestrated this demonstration to protest the blatant lack of regard for the process of justice on-board this ship, and demand the immediate return to duty of Mr. Tucker and Ms. Hess – at their former ranks and positions."

"You can't do that. This is not a democracy, nor is it a union…"

"Actually, it _is_ a union environment, Captain… the lack of a collective agreement does not negate the fact that we have unionised. As head of the Collective Bargaining Unit, I would be quite willing to discuss…"

"I didn't give you permission to do that."

"Sir… if we waited for management to tell us we could form a union, there would _be_ no unions. Unions are for the little people, sir… those of us with no power apart but together we are strong."

I look up at him oddly. "Were you, or have you ever been a member of the Communist Party?"

"No, Senator McCarthy," he mumbles, smiling, "Government Employees Union."

Realising that he's not getting anywhere, Captain Archer marches Mr. Tucker up to the front. "Tell them." Captain Archer prods Mr. Tucker in the side.

"I… I…" He looks around at all of us, gathered here to protest his removal. His head drops, and he shakes his head, a few tears rolling down his cheeks. "I can't." Even though the room has grown silent, I have to strain to hear him. "They've done all this… I just can't…"

The captain's eyebrow begins to twitch – he's succumbing to the strain again.

"We should consider certain possibilities." Keeping my voice low, I caution the executive committee gathered around the table. "If this continues, the captain may be medically unfit to persist in his duties, at which point…"

"Not Sub-commander T'Pol…" Bitten visibly shudders at the thought of a Vulcan running our ship.

"I do believe we can formally protest any lengthy take over by a non-member of Starfleet. However, with Commander Tucker removed from eligibility…" All eyes slide over to Malcolm, who glowers at us.

"How long do you think it would take to give _him_ a nervous breakdown?" Someone asks.

Fortunately, I'm distracted from any speculation on that point by Captain Archer who points at Bitten and myself and then towards the door.

"It would appear that you were correct with regards to negotiation," I carefully climb down to the floor, "Unless he has plans to ambush us directly outside that door. Still, with this many witnesses, it would be difficult to pull off anything. Right now, all he has on his hands is civil disobedience, and I doubt he wants to incite things further."

"Don't worry," McDale assures me, "if anything happens, we're good with riots."

"Excellent.6 Well, we leave things in your capable hands then.7" It's always nice to know that there's a back up plan.

Malcolm escorts us into the ready-room where the captain is already waiting for us.8

"All right. You want to talk, we'll talk. What do you want?"

"We want…"

I kick Bitten in the ankle to get him to shut up. "I want some time to confer with my client for a second." Without waiting for an answer, I haul Bitten into the corner. "This man can be tricky. You can't just go in with a general request, because he'll find a loophole. You tell him you want us back… and he'll make us into Crewmen, and the bastards will still be in charge."

"Well… I _was_ just going to say that we want to negotiate in good faith, and can he provide us with any guarantees that we can do such a thing."

I narrow my eyes. "I wouldn't start off our negotiations with an insult. Now I know you labour types trust management about as far as a dead turtle can jump, but now that we've got him in a corner, it's not a good idea to poke him with a stick."

"Well, you would be the expert on insulting the captain, though I would have thought that you would be the one arguing caution and asking for guarantees."

Some people can be so naïve. "There's no such thing as guarantees… I can't even guarantee that you'll die some day. That's why the gambling industry makes so much money.9 And I _am_ arguing caution, but we can't walk in with some half-assed demands and vague threats. If you're going to threaten somebody – especially a poker player like him – you'd better be holding something in your hand to back it up. And right now, _he's_ got the mitt full of aces while we're bluffing on a broken straight. Now… is there anything else you want besides your old bosses back?" We discuss for a bit, then I turn around and face the captain. "Sir. My client has agreed that we should negotiate, but there are certain terms, which need to be dealt with first."

Captain Archer closes his eyes. "Why did I have a feeling you'd say something like that? All right, out with it."

"Then you agree to negotiate in good faith?"10

"Yes, I do." He looks exhausted, which means it's a good time for our negotiations.

I take a recorder out of my pocket11 and place it on the desk. "Excellent. Mr. Bitten, if you would care to delineate the union's requests, I'm quite confident we can reach a resolution to this impasse. However, I would like it to be understood that there should be no negative repercussions regarding the entirely legal actions of the Enterprise General Union – nor its forerunner, the Enterprise Engineers' Union – in this, or any other matter. Furthermore, and especially, there should be no negative repercussions to the negotiating committee as a result of these proceedings."

"In other words, you don't want me to hold a mass court-martial because a bunch of crewmen – incited by someone with questionable mental stability – decided to completely disregard the chain of command and all Starfleet procedures and essentially mutiny."

"A civil gathering is hardly mutiny, sir. Nor is being ill, _nor_ might I add, is doing your job according to regulations." I decide to ignore the shot about questionable mental stability, for it is difficult to say precisely whom it was aimed at.12

"Look… we all know what's really going on here. So… you want Tucker and Hess returned to duty…"

"At their former ranks and responsibilities, sir," Bitten interrupts. I'm grateful he's quick off the mark with this – it would be wrong for me to say it, but at the same time, I wouldn't put it past the Captain to bust us down to Crewmen, given the option.

"Well… I'm willing to give you Commander Tucker."

"Not without Lieutenant Hess, sir." Bitten knows how the department works.

"Not Hess. Hess is another matter entirely."

_Hello, I'm right here_. "I _do_ hope you're not still looking to prosecute me captain." I might have told Bitten to avoid insults, but there's nothing wrong with a good threat when needed.

"And why not?"

"Because not only would I be found 'not-guilty' due to major violations of Due Process, not to mention some of my basic rights – I would be forced to name Starfleet in general, and you in specific in my lawsuit when I charge _you_ with those violations, not to mention Defamation of Character, and Unlawful Dismissal… or at the very least with scuttling my career." It's my turn for a crocodile smile. "I can recommend a very good attorney for you, sir."

Captain Archer's knuckles are turning white. "Hess… don't push me."

"I wouldn't dream of it, sir. I am merely pointing out to you certain possible repercussions from any legal action you might take against me. Because you see, sir, unlike the rumours you might have heard, I am not a nice person."

"You're a lawyer. I don't think the term 'person' applies."

Bitten jumps in at this point, possibly suspecting this will degenerate into the kind of discussion often seen in bars at three-thirty in the morning – the type where the police are often called in, if not the National Guard. "Sir… if I may have a word?" He pulls Captain Archer over into a corner, and they have a whispered conversation that my recorder is unable to pick up. Captain Archer looks over at me a couple of times in disbelief… but finally surrenders.

"Fine," he stalks back to his desk and drops heavily into his chair. "You get Hess back, too. On one condition."

"What would that be, sir?" I have difficulty believing that it could be this simple.

He picks up my recorder and throws it hard into the far wall where it shatters. "None of this – and I mean _none_ of this – ever happened. There was not, and never will be a Union, there were never any negotiations, and not one of your rights were violated. If I hear even a _whisper_ of _any_ of this, I will make your life so miserable you will wish I _had_ prosecuted you. Given your skills at organising, I'm certain you can spread this message throughout the ship. I expect you to do so."

"Yes, sir." I can't help but wonder what Bitten told him – and I'm too afraid to ask.

He dismisses us, and I'm about to go when he stops me. "By the way, Lieutenant. There's still the question of the rabbit."

"Rabbit, sir?"

He pulls me behind his desk to show me two cages – obviously borrowed from Dr. Phlox – sitting on the floor. Evil Thing is in one and Igor in the other. "It's amazing what you can find when you look."

"Sir, I…" There's no way out of this one, he's got the evidence right there.

"What the hell happened, Hess?" He's staring at Igor, with an odd look in his eyes. I know what he's thinking – Igor looks a mess. He's a lop-ear, but one of those ears is nearly lopped off. He's got scars all over him, and one of his front toes is missing.

"I don't have all the details, sir." I crouch down and stick a finger through the wire to pet the poor guy. "I found him in a garbage bin… he was already pretty messed up."

"And you couldn't just leave him behind."

"Not with my ex, sir. He always felt I was wasting my time with my rescues."

"Hess, why do engineers always insist on doing things the hard way?" The change in conversation seems jarring, but there's only one answer to that question.

"There's an easy way, sir?"

"It's called asking permission, Hess. It's amazing how many rules can be bent when the reasons _behind_ it are known."

"Permission, sir?" After all, asking permission means you can be told no. "Then where would plausible deniability come in?"

He starts to laugh, and pretty soon he can't stop. Every time he gets himself under control, he looks at me and starts laughing again. I'm getting ready to call Phlox, when the captain stops me and shakes his head.

"I see what Trip means, now." He leans in until he's practically nose to nose with me. "Don't _ever_ pull anything like this again, understood?"

"Like what, sir?13"

He flicks his finger hard into the centre of my forehead. "Don't push it, Lieutenant."

"Yes, sir." I _do_ know how to cut a deal after all. "Understood, sir."

"Well, now that you're back on duty – you'll be glad to know we fixed the communications problems. If you wish to contact your attorney now…"

"Honestly, sir… I think I have a mess of paperwork to fix. Given recent events I trust Rostov only slightly more than Commander Tucker in that area. I doubt I'll have time to properly discuss any type of case – especially one which may involve litigation."

"Excellent." His crocodile grin resurfaces. "I'm glad we understand each other, Lieutenant."

"Absolutely, sir." The scary thing is that we _do_ understand each other, maybe a little bit too well. I'm tempted to check genealogical history, just to be certain we aren't somehow related.

I'm about to leave with my charges, when he stops me again. "I'll take the teddy-bear, Lieutenant."

"Teddy-bear, sir?" How did he know about Mr. Fuzzy-Wuzzy?

"Do you think there's much on this ship that I don't know about? Since you and Commander Tucker need to fight over the toy, I'm taking away the toy. If the two of you want to act like three year olds, I am perfectly capable of treating you like three year olds."

I pout. If he wants to treat me like a three year old, I am perfectly capable of acting like one. "I don't have it."

"Get it. And stop pouting, it's not cute."

I open my mouth, and he cuts me off again. "No screaming, either. I have a cure for that, too."

Given that it probably involves one of his old sweat-socks, 14I clamp my jaw shut again.

"Well… maybe you _are_ smart enough for Stanford. So… teddy-bear. Pictures. All of it."

"Have you ever considered hiring out as a psychic, sir?" Knowing about the pictures is a little much.

"You would be a disgrace to your photography merit badge if you _didn't_ take them, Hess. I want them all, and I want the original files erased. Capisce?"

"Si, signore." Actually, it's a small price to pay for liberty, but I can't let him think I'm an easy negotiator.

"Grazie." It's not a crocodile grin… now it's just smug. As I turn to leave, he puts in one last shot. "You two may be the most awesome force since the anti-matter reactor… but I am _still_ the captain."

Which is why it wasn't me who created the teddy-bear photo spread that decorated every table in the mess hall… I wonder, though, what Commander Tucker ever did to him?

* * *

1 Significantly comprised of ensigns – i.e. actual commissioned officers.

2 Actually, when you're dealing with someone who knows how to pick locks… duct tape is a perfectly viable alternative. I'm just pissed off for not seeing it coming.

3 Or stupid

4 Though, I agree – this is neither the time nor the place… I don't think I'd _ever_ want to see that.

5 I've never liked cheerleaders… they're far too normal and popular. I guess that's one of the reasons I like hockey: the only cheerleaders you see there are in the stands… and trust me — stand dwelling cheerleaders are not normal.

6 Now whether that's quelling them or causing them… there are some questions that are better left unasked.

7 It's amazing how much loyalty a little implied confidence can inspire.

8 And I never thought that Starfleet would be so much like high-school.

9 Not to mention the legal profession

10 I avoid saying that 'we assume we can,' mainly because Captain Archer would be quite willing to let us _assume_ whatever we want – and could still do things his way.

11 I always carry one with me… you never know when you need to record something for evidentiary use.

12 I mean, I_ know_ it was probably me, but knowledge and proof are two different things… and I did _not_ incite them, in fact, I explicitly told them _not_ to do these things.

13 After all, he was the one who said it never happened. And if it never happened, how could I have pulled anything?

14 The mere thought of which makes me nauseated


End file.
